Theological Studies
Location
1.
stories about growing up are vicious
terrifying
pretty
fragile
(when my mother asked if i prayed, i answered yes,
but to whom?
i don't know)
2.
i don't believe in God
(i'm sorry)
for i've learned to be weary of girls who wear too many bracelets
and boys who breathe smoke
3.
stories about growing up are vicious and fragile
because my friend was betrayed by everyone who was supposed to love her
and the first time i saw her cry,
i felt my heart break
because when he texted me “i love you”
i swore he meant goodbye
because when everyone else had moved on
i noticed the scars on her wrist
because his mother abandoned him
because her parents say she’ll fail
because he drinks to forget
4.
(when i said i felt like a rock, constantly beaten by the sea and weathering away, he called it poetic)
i don’t want poetic
(i never loved sadness, but now i fear it)
so forgive me when i scrawl lines of poetry across my skin
because i am done drawing scars
5.
i don't believe in God.
i believe in the universe.
there is sancity
in the tendrils of smoke that linger as the burst of fireworks fade into darkness,
their thunder vibrating in your chest
in sticky summer skin,
those nights when the sheets cling to you as you lay sprawled across your bed,
a song running through your mind
in a firefly cupped in your hands as you watch it glow
in paint splattered across your skin
in the ember lights of the city skyline lit against the night
in the stars that spill their stories for you
in the song of the rain on your roof
in the empty pages of a notebook waiting to be filled
or in the scent of a new canvas
in freckles that form constellations
and scars that tell stories of what you have survived
(do not fear your reflection)
in the sinew and bone and blood that you are composed of,
blood through which runs the history of the whole of the world:
Genesis
pyramids
sacrifices
castles
wars
marriages
dynasties
revolutions
there is sanctity in the ordinary,
the beautiful:
messy handwriting
coffee stains
smeared paint
books crinkled with age
midnight drives when the whole world is silent and still and yours
the smell of grass
the glow of fireflies
the crunch of fallen leaves
and in the stars that will always be there
and then sometimes
stories about growing up may even be beautiful.